Florence Meets the American
by Sitting With Strangers
Summary: Prequel to the AnderssonUlvaeusTim Rice Musical.


Chapter one:

A New York bar, 1979

**American.**

Freddie Trumper sat in a state of total relaxation. At either side of him were several women decked in dangerously cleavage-savvy tops and miniskirts that barely qualified as belts. He chatted charmingly, throwing at witty remarks and irresistible compliments like they were going out of style. Of course, he was sure to add a few double entendres and winks. By evening they would all be clamoring to get into bed with him. They all seemed reasonably attractive; it would he hard to choose just one. Luckily, these obviously weren't the type of ladies that needed a decision.

Although he'd suffered high school as the class nerd, it hadn't taken twenty-eight-year-old Freddie very long to learn how to handle women. Everything came rather easily, it came with the job. Freddie was a professional chess player. Ranked number three in the American leagues, he stood in the top twenty five worldwide. The actually number tended to vary between eighteen and twenty-two, depending on who you asked. Not bad for a non Soviet not even thirty years old, but still not number one. He was determined that someday everyone in the elite chess world would know and revere the name Frederick Trumper. The next day in fact, he was to meet with Professor Willgrave, a world-renowned expert on the history of chess, in order to discuss Russian strategies so someday he would beat those damn commies. A few more years, a few more years and Freddie will have gone from second-rate champ to legend.

As he leaned over to say something naughty to a buxom brunette (her name was some flower, Daisy or something) he noticed a rather lonely looking redhead sitting in a booth across the bar. He glanced down the line of women laughing beside him and noticed that not a single one had red hair.

Freddie snapped his fingers. "Marcos!" he called. The bartender flitted over, a handsome Puerto Rican in a white shirt and black slacks. Freddie slipped him a fifty. "How about drinks for all these lovely ladies?" he smirked as the lovely ladies giggled. He beckoned Marcos and added in a whisper, "And a drink for the gorgeous redhead over there."

Marcos glanced over at the lonely girl in the corner. He looked like he was about to say something, but stopped and smiled, "Right away sir."

In a wink he brought drinks for every member of Freddie's harem. Giggling, the girls gushed on and on about Freddie's generosity. He waved all their sweet remarks away; he was happy to pay. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Marcos bring the alcohol to the redhead in the corner. She stared at Marcos confused, and then looked to Freddie. He gave a charming smile and a surreptitious wink. Then, to his utter amazement, she smiled at Marcos and coolly rejected his offering. Marcos shrugs at Freddie and waltzes back over.

"Sorry signor," he apologized. "But she will not take it. Would you care for it?"

"Sure why not," Freddie replied bitterly, taking a swig of the beer. The ethanol rejuvenated his confidence. He smiled. "Would you please excuse me ladies?" he asked. They all protested momentarily, but, after promising a hasty return, they relented. He stood up to talk to the girl, determined that she should join his entourage. After all, he was American and all Americans supported diversity.

"So," he said, sliding next to her in the booth. "You refuse my gift?"

She smiled sweetly, though obviously forced. "Well," she replied, her voice crisp with a sexy British accent. "No one gives a gift without expecting another gift in return. I have no interest in reciprocating your kind motion, so I determined it better I prevent debt of any kind."

So, she was smart. And British. Freddie was intrigued. "You looked rather lonely," he rationalized coyly. "I'd hate for a beautiful woman like you to be lonely."

"I'm completely content thank you very much," she snapped.

"Well, maybe I'm lonely."

She glanced at the woman at the bar, currently engaged in an intricate discussion about acrylic nails. "You seem perfectly content as well. Spend the drink on one of the bodacious babes over there. They will appreciate the favor much more than I would."

Freddie ran his hand through his blond hair. This was becoming severely more difficult than he'd anticipated. Normally he'd eagerly pursue the challenge, but his entire harem had begun to miss him and beckoned his return. He decided to cut to the chase; perhaps brutal honesty would work. "I would love to sit here and banter," he said casually. "But from the first second I saw you, I just had to say that you are one foxy kitten and I would love to show you what this lion loves to do to foxy kittens."

She stared at him scandalized for a second. Then, before he could blink, she slapped him with the force of a professional body builder. She stood up, stared at him coldly, and walked out with the dignity of a queen.

Defeated, walked back to his flock of girls, who brilliantly cheered his return. He took a swig of his beer and put his face back on. "So ladies," he grinned, "who would care to take a walk back to my hotel."

Giggling scandalously, the ladies stood up and followed him out the door.

**Florence**

Florence stalked out of the bar, enraged. She detested men who thought that they were suave. "Go out and socialize!" Arthur had told her. "Go meet some men!" She knew her guardian meant well but quite simply, unlike Arthur most men were unbearably stupid.

She heard what sounded like the chittering of chickens and turned to see that impudent American lead his little lambs out of the bar. They locked eyes for a second. He winked and she felt ready to barf. Luckily he didn't try to make another move, instead proceeding to lead his flock down the street. Ruffling her hair, she stepped out in the street. "Taxi!" she called. "Taxi!"


End file.
